The Dog Park
by Imagination Central
Summary: In which Derek's dog really hates Stiles' dog, and Stiles' dog really hates Derek's dog. (Eventual glasses shopping) Human AU & SMUT Enjoy


**Author's Note - Hello! This was an idea I stole from Tumblr, suggested to me by a friend. So, here it is. ALSO: To Dylan O'Brien fans, you'll catch some little tid bits in here that involve Dylan ****_outside_**** of Teen Wolf. Anywho, I hope you all enjoy. **

**Warnings: CURSSSIIINNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGG (and some bad attempts at humor).**

**Enjoy, Devynn. (You better give me that Butterfinger)**

**x~x~x**

Marty really hated Duke.

Marty was Stiles' fat white bulldog, and Duke would be some random model's massive Rottweiler.

You can imagine how the fat bulldog picking a fight with a muscled Rottweiler always ended.

Stiles' strengthened his hold on Marty's leash, amazed that such a fat little creature could pack all that strength into one tug. They had arrived at the dog park, and Marty, being the little social butterfly that he was, had already spotted some of his friends, milling around and sniffing each other's butts.

Stiles, on the other hand, was quickly checking in all directions for the owner of Duke, worry crawling up his throat. Whenever he saw that face – Duke's owner was model gorgeous with a body that made Calvin Klein models cry – he knew that he would have to hightail it out of there. He also looked exactly like a stereotypical Rottweiler owner would look; he constantly had a worn black leather jacket slung over his wide shoulders, a faint hint of stubble across a jaw that could kill, and smoldering green eyes that made Stiles want to melt into the ground.

And also run screaming, because his face usually meant Marty's near death. Thankfully, however, the dog park seemed void of all Rottweiler's and gorgeous men at the moment. Slipping through the gate, Stiles tried not to lose his glasses as Marty jumped and wiggled around, dancing circles in between Stiles legs.

"Okay, _okay_, Marty, I will let you go if you _stop _jumping."

Marty ran his head into the fence, whining in protest. A couple dog owners looked over at the sound, and Stiles blushed.

"Marty, you are a stupid son of a bitch," Stiles muttered under his breath before he opened up the gate and watched as his fat little bundle of bulldog raced for a petite looking Wiener dog, instantly snuffling around its tiny hindquarters.

Sighing, Stiles slung Marty's leash around his slim hips and leaned against the fence, watching his dog waddle around with a small smile on his face.

He had first started bringing Marty to the dog park when he a realized that his bulldog was overweight and fat, and decided that he needed to lose some of the poundage. That hadn't happened, however, and Marty remained as fat as ever, but after a while, it had almost become a stress reliever. Something about watching furry creatures run around aimlessly and sniff each other's butts made Stiles relax and hang loose, for whatever reason.

"I see Marty is happy as ever," came a gravelly voice from Stiles' left. Turning with a smile, he nodded at Fredrick's old, weathered face. They had bonded over their dog's affection for each other, and Stiles found the old man's company pleasant. There weren't many other people who talked to their dogs as much as Stiles.

"Marty just ate all of my ice cream cone from McDonald's, so he better be damn happy."

"And you still wonder why he's fat?"

"Hey, let's keep the accusations to ourselves here, Fredrick."

The man laugh-wheezed and clapped his large hands together like he couldn't stand Stiles. That was another reason he liked Fredrick. He thought Stiles was the funniest thing that ever had graced this dog park.

Stiles smiled back too, but then his eyes caught on something entering the dog park, and he paled. It was crazy good hair, most likely styled into perfection in front of the mirror like a girl, but still, it was gorgeous. Which could mean only one of two things.

a) Someone with crazy good hair had decided that this park would be a good place to start taking their small, peaceful dog.

b) Owner of Duke, aka Model Man, was being a douche and coming at the exact same time as Stiles and causing chaos and the near death of his dog.

Stiles was not naïve enough to believe that any other man could have hair that perfect, but he wasn't quick enough in calling Marty's name. His little bulldog was already turned fully towards where Duke had just entered the park, wagging his body in excitement as he jumped around Tall Dark and Handsome, waiting to be let off his leash. Marty's short fur was bristling, and his stubby little legs were pawing at the ground like he was some sort of bull getting ready to charge at a red flag.

"MARTY!" Stiles yelped, "DON'T DO IT!" Just as he took off as fast as his chubby little legs could take him, heading straight for Duke. Calvin Klein Model glanced up just as Duke roared his mighty roar and broke free from his leash, charging at Marty.

The bulldog growled and came to a screeching halt, just as Duke tumbled into him, sending both of them sprawling in a rather ugly sounding doggy greeting.

"God, fuck, _shit_, Marty you are honestly so –"

"Duke! DUKE GET OFF OF HIM!"

"Marty, GET HIM OFF OF YOU, PUSSY!"

Model Man glanced over at this, his angry eyebrows lifting and Stiles fought down the urge to blush, and instead did the super manly thing and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

He was such a nerd.

He rushed forward, reaching where Marty was rolling around on the ground like an upside down turtle, while Duke was standing gracefully over the writhing mass of fat, his upper lip pulled taut in a fierce growl.

"Hey, good doggy, I just need to grab this little greaseball right here…"

Model Man must have been staring at his back in disgust, because Stiles felt the burn of eyeballs on his spinal cord as he yanked Marty into his arms, standing up just as Duke launched himself towards Stiles, all large mouth and big teeth and scary sounds.

Stiles made a really manly sound, somewhere between a squeal and a squeak, and fell backwards, listening as Marty growled and writhed in his arms, like he thought he was hot shit.

"Duke, for the love of God," a deep voice shouted, and as Stiles turned to address the Angel, Marty leapt from his grasp and landed awkwardly on the ground, then took off towards his patch of doggy friends, his large tongue hanging out of his mouth in a manner that made him look all kinds of intelligent. Duke saw this and launched himself at the bulldog, knocking Stiles down in the process.

"Duke! Heel!"

Stiles' arms swung out around him as he tumbled towards the grass, grunting hard as he connected with the soft green of the ground. There was a low curse word above him, and then Stiles realized his glasses had fallen off on his trip downward.

"Shit, I'm sorry-" that voice was there again, so deep and so shivery.

"Glasses," Stiles muttered, blinking into the blur that was Mr. Model's face. He wished he could experience his face when he could actually _see_.

"Right, ah here they… NO! DUKE!"

There was a sound of shattering glass, and then even more curse words and a growl that sounded a lot like Marty. Ah, good old Marty, always there when Stiles needed him. Not.

"Um, I think my dog just broke your glasses."

"You're shitting me,"

"I don't think so,"

"How do you _think_ he broke my glasses? Did you not see it or something? Do we need to hold a jury to see which dog was guilty of breaking my glasses? Those were _amazing_ glasses, goddamnit."

"Um,"

"Just give me my glasses, man. I need to see in order to drive home."

There were suddenly glasses being thrust into Stiles' large hands, and he fumbled them onto his face. Once they were over his eyes, however, he realized that one whole chunk of glass had fallen out of his left lens.

"I'm really sorry about that," Stiles tried to focus on the guy's face, blinking back a gasp of surprise when he was hefted up out of the grass by strong hands. "If you can't see well enough, I can take you home no problem. I'll buy you new glasses, too so don't…" He trailed off when Stiles held up his hand.

"Where is Marty? Is Marty okay?"

"Marty?"

"My bulldog. You know, the fat white one with a spot over his left eye? Your dog seems to hate him a lot."

"It's not like Marty loves Duke."

"God, _Duke_. How original is that?"

"What's wrong with his name?"

"I mean, Duke is nice and everything, but seriously, it's so stereotypical it makes me want to gag. No wonder Marty hates him."

"What."

"Oh, don't even act offended. You know it's true."

"Well, your dog is fat."

"Tell me something I don't know. At least he has an original name."

"His name makes him sound mentally unstable."

"Duke's name makes him sound stereotypical and soulless. At least Marty has a soul."

"Yeah, well, Marty's owner doesn't have a ride home anymore."

"Hold up, now, let's not be hasty, here," Stiles said in a rush, holding out his hands to stop Mr. Model from turning around and officially stranding him. "I'm sorry for mocking your dog's name, but I am kind of ticked that he broke my favorite glasses."

With his limited perception, Stiles picked up an annoyed eye roll and an eyebrow twitch combo that made him grin despite himself. "So, do I still have a ride home?"

"Get Marty."

"Sweet! Thanks, dude, I really appreciate it… MARTY GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE!"

x~x~x

The car ride home would have been at least a little less awkward if they had avoided bringing both dogs in the same car. However, seeing as Stiles was road blind (pun intended), they didn't have many options. Getting Duke and Marty into the same car also proved very difficult, because every time Marty would even get remotely close to the car door, Duke would start barking his ass off and Marty would nearly piss himself trying to jump out of Stiles' arms. Finally, though, they worked it out so Duke was confined to the back seat and Marty was held tightly in Stiles' arms, despite his attempts to wriggle himself free.

When they pulled up to a stop light, Stiles adjusted his glasses and shoved Marty down between his legs and held him there for a moment, trying to get a breath of air that _didn't_ contain dog fur. Mr. Model glanced over in what Stiles assumed was amusement, (he couldn't really tell what with his singular eyesight and the guys mask of a face) then turned back to the road and continued to drive.

"It just occurred to me that I still don't know your name and you are driving me back to my house. I don't know about you, but that is nearly the definition of danger. Or dangerous. Though, those are nearly the same things anyways." Stiles paused to consider, "Either way, this is defiantly not safe."

There was a grunt from the driver's seat, and then the car came to a stop, and Stiles realized they were in a gas station parking lot.

"My name is Derek Hale, and I'm the owner of a bar downtown."

"Nice to meet you Derek Hale, owner of 'A Bar Downtown'. You know, that's one of the most creative names I've ever heard of. How do you come up with it? Does it just come to you? Or do you have a friend that helps you come up with that? That could be a profession. That should be _my_ profession."

Mr. Model, or Derek, ran his hands through his hair and let out a big sigh. "Yes. Sure. What about you?"

Stiles blinked.

"_What_ about me? There's nothing much to me. My name is Stiles, ah, Stilinski, and currently I am in college, aspiring to work at Google, because who doesn't want to work there?"

Derek made a slightly impressed noise, then shook his head and started the car up. "So, now is it safe for me to take you home?"

"Well, not technically, because we don't _know_ each other yet. Like, I could look up everything I just learned about you on the Internet. But I'll accept it. For now."

Stiles earned a small response from Derek at this, then he started the car and they were on the road again. Marty was writhing in between his legs, probably trying to free himself so he could either sit nicely in Stiles' lap, or launch himself at Duke, who had quieted down and was now laying on the ground of the car, his head between his paws.

"So, where is your house?"

"That is personal, and you are only allowed to know that if you are friend level fifteen."

"What level am I?"

"About a six point eight."

"How do I get to a fifteen?"

Stiles shrugged and looked at his shoes like he was thinking. Derek tried to ignore how cute he looked when he pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"You have to know my favorite color."

"Your favorite color?"

"Yes. As in, the color my eyes most enjoy looking at."

"I have no clue."

"There is this wonderful tool called _guessing_."

"I don't want to guess your favorite color. I just want to take you home."

"Now we're really getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we?"

"Would you _shut up_?"

"I can _hear_ the italics."

"Oh my God, Stiles, what is your favorite color?"

"Weeeeeeelll, since you asked so nicely, my favorite color is red."

"Where do you live?"

Stiles put a hand to his heart and Marty jumped out of his legs, attacking his face with his tongue. "You sure do know how to sweet talk a boy, don't you Derek?"

The man rolled his eyes and put the car into drive, listening as Stiles gave him the directions to his house. On the ride over, the silence, while slightly annoying to Stiles, was not awkward or uncomfortable, except for the few times that Marty fart-squeaked and stunk up the entire Camaro.

When Derek pulled into Stiles' apartments parking lot, he hesitated before pulling the car into Park. Then he turned to look at Stiles, and the boy tried to keep from letting drool fall out of his mouth.

"So, we need to set up a time to get those glasses switched."

"Yes, yes we do."

"When?"

"When what? When is my birthday? When is the end of the world? When is am I going to become an A-list celebrity in the Kim Kardashian mobile app? We may never know."

"_When_ do you want to buy new ones?"

"Ah, there we go. Tomorrow is a good time. Shall we say, tomorrow at four?"

"I'll pick you up."

And with that, Stiles hopped down from the car, pulled Marty out after him, and watched as the Angel of Sex that was Derek Hale, drove away.

x~x~x

"Scott, you have no idea, he was, _is_, the cutest, no, _hottest_, thing to walk this planet we call Earth. _And he gave me a ride home_."

"Stiles, that's really great and everything, but I can relate to you in _no fucking way at all_. I still don't get why you tell me about all your guy crushes."

"Because if I tell Lydia I'm afraid she'll ask if she can meet them, and no offense to her, but I really don't want that to happen."

"Fair enough. So, I'm assuming he's buying your new glasses tomorrow?"

Stiles popped a buttery piece of popcorn into his mouth, then fed Marty a handful and sighed. "I sure hope so. I have no money for my own food. I have no money for Marty's food. I _certainly_ have no money for glasses."

"Certainly?"

"Most defiantly."

"I see."

Stiles grinned into the phone, then wedged it between his shoulder and ear so he could shove the bowl of popcorn forward and adjust his position on the couch.

"How's the Allison deal coming along?"

"It's coming, I guess. She's really emotional right now, though. I honestly can't tell if she's on… you know, or if it's just a side of her I haven't seen yet."

"Ah, yes, yes." Stiles mumbled, fumbling with the remote to the TV.

"Stiles?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you want to fuck me?"

"Mhm, yeah." Dropping the remote in satisfaction, Stiles smiled at the screen, watching as Forrest got shot in the ass. Then his eyes widened in horror as he realized what he had said.

"God, _no_, Scott, no offense, but I would never tap you, ever. You remind me of some sort of dog, which, while cute, is so not fuckable."

"Ew, God, Stiles, that is disgusting."

Shrugging his shoulders, Stiles continued to munch on his popcorn. It was quiet on the line for a beat, and then there was a loud thud and a string of curse words.

"I just dropped a giant ass dictionary on my foot," Scott muttered, then hung up just as Stiles snorted into the phone.

After Scott was gone, Stiles was given some time to just sit and think, which usually never ended very well for him. He kept thinking about Derek, and how he would see him tomorrow, sans dogs and chaos, and just _be_. The thought filled him with intense shivers that travelled quickly along the base of his spine and down his arms.

They would be alone, together, shopping for glasses. Which meant that Derek would be studying Stiles' face a lot. Which meant that Stiles had to look fantastic tomorrow.

There was only one problem.

Stiles' had a way too perky nose and he was too skinny and strangely pale and had little moles nearly _everywhere_.

Not to mention completely _wrong_ for Derek.

What Derek needed was another guy, or girl, who was tough and gorgeous and mysterious and sexy like he was. He needed an equal, someone he could relate with. He didn't need some nerd with huge hipster glasses and aspirations for Google sharing his bed at night.

Who did?

Grunting in annoyance, Stiles turned over on the couch and Marty gave an annoyed growl before flopping off the couch and onto the floor, where he made a nice bed out of the spilled popcorn kernels, then went to sleep.

Stiles smiled softly at his dog, ruffled his head lightly, then closed his eyes and passed out on his couch.

x~x~x

Derek checked his appearance once more in the mirror of his car before he leaned forward and bit his lip, trying to control the butterflies (God, he was such a girl), flying around in his stomach. He had not a clue as to why he was so nervous about picking Stiles up and taking him to go get a pair of glasses. It's not like he couldn't afford it.

Still.

His mouth was like a giant cotton ball and his throat constricted uncomfortably every time he tried to swallow. Why was he so nervous? Why did that little skinny dork with an adorable nose make him squirm? Strengthening his resolve, he checked his watch to make sure he wasn't early. Ten minutes wasn't _that_ bad, was it?

Walking up the crumbly sidewalk of Stiles' apartment complex, Derek tried to think of something to say that wouldn't make him sound like a socially awkward man who had no friends. But, when he knocked on the door and Stiles answered in a red and dark blue plaid shirt and skinny jeans, he momentarily forgot how to breathe. How could someone's eyes be so _brown_? How could someone's nose be so _cute_?

"Uh, hey." Derek mumbled, staring down at his feet.

Stiles grinned and bumped his shoulder. "The D-man has arrived. Nice. So, where are we going to hunt for glasses?"

Derek was momentarily caught off guard by the casual hand at his shoulder, but then a tremendous barking from inside snagged his attention.

"Marty! NO! It's just Derek!"

"I don't think he understands you," Derek tried.

"You don't understand the relationship I share with Marty. I understand everything he says, and he understands everything I say."

"Oh really," Derek resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What did he just say, then?"

Stiles looked down. "I don't feel comfortable repeating it."

Derek hid his laugh behind his hand and turned away, shaking his head.

"So, do you have any glasses preference places?"

"I do thoroughly enjoy places that hold the brand 'Hipster'."

"That's not a brand."

"It's a thing."

"But that's not the same as a brand."

"For the love of Pete, just take me to Wal-Mart. I hear they have sexy salesmen."

Derek's heart fluttered at that, a smile working its way into his features. "I am not taking you to Wal-Mart."

"Fine. But _take me somewhere_. I need glasses. Preferably black."

Derek rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking lot, sliding onto the street. He started towards downtown, and Stiles glanced out the window.

"Where's your bar?"

Derek looked over in interest, watching as the blur of buildings went by. "Somewhere down First Street. Down that road right there," he pointed down a happy looking road, lined with Redstone buildings and old-fashioned lampposts.

"Dainty."

"Shut up."

Stiles grinned and continued to look around, and the same silence that had blanketed them the day before surrounded them again, though this time it felt more causal, more comfortable than the day prior. Derek kept trying to force himself to look at the road, but it was proving a difficult task with Stiles sitting in his passengers seat wearing that plaid shirt.

_Damn_ did he look good in that shirt.

Derek jumped as a car horn blared next to him and swerved his car back into its proper lane. Stiles was mimicking a heart attack next to him and throwing his hands out like he was choking.

Finally, after a couple more car horns and Stiles faking death, Derek pulled into a small eye doctor clinic, to which Stiles groaned out loud.

"You've got to be kidding me right now. This is where _old_ people come. They are _so_ not going to have the glasses I want here."

"Quit complaining."

"Quit complaining. Quit complaining? I am _not_ wearing grandpa glasses, _ever_ never _ever_. I don't care if they're made of gold and will get me all the guys. I refuse to look at myself in those."

Derek rolled his eyes and started opening his door. "I'm sure you could pull them off," he muttered, and Stiles whole face broke out in a pleasantly adorable blush.

Once they were inside, a watery eyed old man came to greet them, smiling happily. "Hello! What can I help you with?"

"I need new glasses."

"Do you already have a prescription?"

"Yes indeed,"

The man looked a little disappointed at that, but waved them towards the wall of glasses anyway. "Then have a look. I'll check your papers and go find some cleaners for you."

Stiles nodded along as if he knew what the man was talking about, but Derek stood there looking a little less than intelligent. He had no idea what either of them had even been saying. Glasses talk was foreign to him.

Stiles was already over at the wall of glasses, studying them like they were some sort of complicated puzzle. "I see _no_ hipster glasses here at _all_ and those are the _only_ kind that fit my delightfully boyish face."

Derek scanned the rows of glasses until his eyes landed on a pair of ridiculously old manish glasses.

"Stiles, close your eyes."

"I don't trust you, therefore I refuse to close my eyes."

"Just close your eyes."

"No."

"Stiles."

"Fine."

As his big brown eyes fell closed, Derek plucked the wire-rimmed oval shaped glasses from the wall and slid them over Stiles' perky nose. Then he maneuvered him in front of the testing mirror and removed his hands.

"You can look now."

Stiles opened his eyes slowly, and when he saw his face he whipped his head around and glared at Derek, not bothering to remove the glasses.

"You disgust me," Stiles growled, whipping the glasses off his head and shoving them into Derek's hands. "A man lays his biggest fears out for you, and what do you do? You throw them, no, _shove_ them right back in his face."

Derek laughed and walked back over to where he had found them sliding them back into place. Then his eyes caught on glasses; a pair of slightly chunky glasses with a medium sized black frame and wide lenses. What Stiles called, 'hipster glasses'. Plucking them off the wall, Derek walked over to Stiles, who was helplessly staring up at the wall, and tapped his shoulder.

"I swear to God, if you have another pair of god-awful grandpa glasses in your hand, I will smack you."

"I don't, I promise."

Turning around slowly, as if he didn't want to look, Stiles glanced down at the glasses offered in Derek's hands. His whole face lit up in one instant and he was sliding them over his eyes, where they rested perfectly on his cute little nose, highlighting his eyes in the best possible way. Derek could imagine Stiles falling asleep on the couch in those glasses, taking Marty out for a walk in those glasses, doing his college homework in those glasses, working at Google in those glasses.

Kissing Derek madly and passionately in those glasses.

Stiles was busy looking at himself in the mirror, biting his lip as if he wasn't sure. "You're positive these look okay? Like, they don't make me look stupid or anything?"

"No," Derek responded, and his voice was a touch hoarser than usual.

"You're for sure? I don't want to go out in public looking like a…" Stiles trailed off, suddenly aware that Derek had taken two steps forward and invaded his personal space quickly. He smelled of musk and Old Spice and faintly of the Black Ice car scenty he had hanging in his Camaro.

"I'm for sure,"

Derek's voice sounded like sex. He _looked_ like sex. Stiles swallowed hard, blinking a little too fast to look natural. Then Derek's mouth was on his and the world ceased to exist. All the grandpa glasses and the big Rottweilers and barking Martys and awkward eye care professionals no longer existed. The only thing that mattered was Derek's feather soft kiss against Stiles' lips, the way they moved and parted Stiles' own, the way they urged Stiles' tongue into Derek's mouth. Someone groaned, though Stiles wasn't sure if it was him or Derek. There were hands in his hair and on his collar bone and at his hips and all Stiles could do was moan into the kiss and keep his firm grip on Derek's leather jacket.

But then there was a loud noise of surprise, and Derek jerked away from Stiles. The old man eye care professional stood in the middle of the hardwood floor, a clipboard held in his hands, his pen fallen on the floor.

Stiles cleared his throat and took a small step back, pretending like he hadn't almost come in the middle of an eyeglasses store for old people from a kiss from a guy he had just met yesterday at a dog park. Psh.

"Ah," the old man started, but Stiles interrupted him by sliding the glasses off his face and handing them over to the overwhelmed man.

"I think we'll be buying these,"

**x~x~x**

Please review to let me know what you think!

-IC


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